I Wish My Horse Had The Speed

I Can See His Pride Peep Through Each Part Of Him.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

Good Hamlet, Cast Thy Nighted Colour Off ... Do Not For Ever With Thy Vailed Lids Seek For Thy Noble Father In The Dust.

We That Are True Lovers Run Into Strange Capers; But As All Is Mortal In Nature, So Is All Nature In Love Mortal In Folly.

Enjoy'd No Sooner But Despised Straight, Past Reason Hunted, And No Sooner Had Past Reason Hated